


The Morning After

by Ladytalon



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladytalon/pseuds/Ladytalon





	The Morning After

  


 

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Marcus Hamilton was smooth. Marcus Hamilton was suave. Marcus Hamilton was sophisticated. Marcus Hamilton was very, very drunk.

The big man swayed on his barstool slightly, clutching at the beer bottle in front of him as if it would help him remain seated instead of in a well-tailored heap on the somewhat sticky floor. A small voice in the back of his head wondered why he was so drunk in the first place – the power of the Senior Partners which flowed through his veins shouldn't have allowed it, after all. And he was only drinking Heineken, for hell's sake!

His blue eyes fastened on the bottle and he caressed it lovingly, for it was _his_ bottle, and no one else's. "Mine," he sighed happily, lifting to it his lips. Moments later he set it down and frowned at it disapprovingly. _His_ bottle was empty. Well, true love never lasted forever, he thought as he knocked it over the counter and signaled for another – maybe this one would last longer. The barkeep approached, hovering just out of reach nervously. "Bling me 'nother," Marcus demanded imperiously.

"Um, sir?" the man shuffled further away from him. "There….is no more – you drank all of it." He gestured to the mountain of empty bottles behind the bar which as almost as tall as he was.

Marcus peered at him owlishly. "Go *hic* get *hic* s'more," he managed between a barrage of hiccups.

The bartender gulped and made to reply when a voice impinged upon the liaison's awareness. "Whoa there, big fella – I think you've had enough." Hands supported him when he turned and nearly fell from the stool. "Easy," the voice cautioned. He looked down to see a green-skinned vision of beauty smiling at him seductively, and decided he'd picked the right demon bar after all.

"Wanna *hic* join me?" Marcus slurred.

"In your place or mine, handsome?"

Drunk as he was, never let it be said that Marcus Hamilton couldn't recognize a stunningly unimaginative pick-up line when he heard one. At the moment, however, he was far too horny to care. With his evening's companion struggling to keep him upright after slipping the bartender a wad of cash for some reason, they managed to make it to…somewhere before clothing was ripped open, sent flying, and a wildly passionate consummation of their alcoholically-fueled attraction ensued.

  


_ _ _ _ _ _

The first rays of dawn filtered through the garish red curtains, striking his face, and the brightness woke Marcus from his stupor. His head felt as if several automobiles has driven over it repeatedly, it seemed as if his eyelids had been replaced with sandpaper, and his mouth had such a foul taste that he believed he might well be producing penicillin inside it. Where was he, and how did he get… he groaned as an injudicious movement produced a fresh wave of agony throughout his entire nervous system – it was as if there were a motorcycle rally taking place inside his skull.

He eased out from under the arm that had been flung across him and began searching for his clothing – his tie was found lazily spinning on the ceiling fan and the rest of his suit was retrieved from various points in the room. Trial and error brought the discovery of the bathroom, and he ducked his head under the faucet after tending to more pressing needs. Marcus stared blearily into the mirror at his haggard looking reflection. "You've definitely looked better," he informed himself, wincing as the sound of his own voice reverberated in his head much too loudly for his comfort. How many centuries had it been since he had gotten this hung-over? Even _thinking_ hurt. Fumbling at the mirrored cabinet, he managed to get it open and tossed back an entire bottle of aspirin before stepping into the shower – the pounding in his head eased slightly, enough for him to begin wondering exactly where he was.

The shower helped ease his hangover that much more and after he dressed quickly, he began to search for clues to his whereabouts – as Marcus walked silently back to the bedroom, he began to have some idea of who it was that he had gone home with the previous night…each flamboyant sash, garish color, and piece of glittery nonsense was one more blow to his ego. _Please let it be someone else, **please** let it be someone else…_ His silent prayers were in vain as the figure in the bed shifted and turned to face him, thankfully still asleep. Eyes widening in horror, Marcus fled as fast and as far as his handmade Italian loafers could take him. There was an extremely good reason they called the phenomenon ' wearing beer goggles'.

A few potions, five more showers, and another change of clothes later…

Marcus strode across the lobby of Wolfram &amp; Hart, the epitome of confidence as he tried his best to forget the shame that would, sadly, never quite go away. He flirted with the ditzy blonde receptionist. He annoyed Angel to the point that the vampire was ready to offer him money if he would simply go away. He flexed his muscles threateningly at Eve, who cowered away from him quite nicely. But when he sat down to review one last memo with Gunn, his day went straight to hell… minus the handbasket. A pair of cufflinks were dropped on the table in front of him. "You left these under my bed, sweetums," Lorne sang cheerfully.

Painfully aware of the gaping stares of the entire team of Angel Investigations and no less than three research assistants, Marcus Hamilton did the only thing he could do in such a situation – he excused himself politely and headed straight to the men's room to have a good cry.

  


~*~END~*~  
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